


his hair, his smoke, his dreams

by willoftitanium



Series: soft tma prompts [1]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Canon-Typical The Lonely Content (The Magnus Archives), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eyes, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Set in Episodes 159-160 | Scottish Safehouse Period (The Magnus Archives), but he doesn't realize it until Jon points it out, the Lonely changed Martin's eye color
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-03
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-16 13:28:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29825670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/willoftitanium/pseuds/willoftitanium
Summary: ""Your-” Jon starts, suddenly nervous under Martin’s gaze. “Your eyes. I suppose they look blue from a distance, but I… I can’t believe I never noticed the actual color.”Martin searches his face. Seemingly for something he can’t find. "What do you mean? They are blue, they always have been."Oh."Prompt #1 - “I never noticed your eyes were this [colour].”
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Series: soft tma prompts [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2192565
Comments: 11
Kudos: 189





	his hair, his smoke, his dreams

**Author's Note:**

> my first entry in a self-assigned challenge to write a tma ficlet for every prompt listed in a tumblr post I saw. I've been on a bit of a writing kick lately and thought I'd fuck around and find out, or something along those lines. all of the fics I post for it will go in my "soft tma prompts" series, but I imagine most of them will be stand alone oneshots.
> 
> the title of this fic comes from Colors by Halsey which makes me think of Martin without fail every time I hear it. anyways, I hope you enjoy <3

Jon wakes early, seemingly of his own accord. Which is odd, considering the exhaustion that still aches behind his closed eyes. He’s warm and the fabric beneath him is soft and he’s definitely  _ not _ in the Archives, and then awareness comes back to him with all the subtlety of a freight train.

_ Lukas Martin Jonah Lonely Martin Scotland Martin _ -

His eyes are met with a bedroom that is not his own -  _ but he doesn’t have his own bedroom anymore, does he? -  _ bathed in the hazy indigo of early morning. He’s in a bed. Not a very large bed, but still big enough for two people, because Martin is lying next to him-

_ Ah. _

He’s asleep, based on his breathing - deep and rhythmic. Jon rolls onto his side, gently to not shift the mattress too suddenly. It’s not easy - the old springs creak underneath him with every move - but Martin doesn’t stir.

Jon watches him, for a while. There are dark shadows under his eyes and lines that Jon doesn’t remember being there before. But his face is slack with the peace of deep sleep. His mouth is open ever so slightly. Jon hopes he isn’t dreaming.

He expects to drift back to unawareness at some point. But every time his eyelids fall shut they open again, sight drawn to Martin’s face like a moth to a flame. The room gradually lightens from purple to blue to yellow, and when the sun hits Martin’s face through a crack in the blinds, he opens his eyes. Jon almost looks away. But he doesn't.

Martin takes a moment to come to himself, his grey eyes-

_ Wait. _

"Hi," Martin whispers, voice low and rough with sleep.

Jon is quiet for just barely on the far side of too long, and Martin blinks a bit of the drowsiness away. "Is something wrong?" He murmurs, half into the pillow.

Of course Jon had to go and worry him. And this early in the morning, no less.

"No, no, sorry. I just-" Jon breathes a laugh into the space between them, closer now than it's ever been. "I always thought your eyes were blue."

Martin furrows his brow. He looks a bit more awake, now. "What?"

"Your-” Jon starts, suddenly nervous under Martin’s gaze. “Your eyes. I suppose they look blue from a distance, but I… I can’t believe I never noticed the actual color.”

Martin searches his face. Seemingly for something he can’t find. "What do you mean? They  _ are  _ blue, they always have been."

_ Oh. _

_ Oh no. _

Jon stares. Opens his mouth, closes it again. He doesn't know what to say, which doesn't put Martin at ease in the slightest. His heart sinks as Martin rises, pushing the covers back as he stands.

"Um-"

Jon follows him to the bathroom. Martin stands in front of the sink, arms braced on either side. The mirror hangs crooked on the wall, dusty and warped slightly with age. He doesn't move. Neither does Jon.

"Huh." Martin laughs after a long moment, dry and humorless and it almost certainly echoes a bit at the end. A fist squeezes around Jon's ribcage. He reaches a hand out because it feels like he should, but what is he going to do with it?

"Martin-"

"I guess my eyes  _ were _ blue. Past… past tense." Martin brings a hand to his face as he speaks, studying his reflection like it's the first time he's seen it in months.

A buzzing, whirring feedback rises in Jon's mind and suddenly he  _ Knows  _ it’s the first time Martin’s seen his reflection in that long.  _ Bent over the sink in the hospital bathroom, completely and utterly alone, sobs echoing across the cold tile to fall on no one’s ears but his own- all you have to do is look in a mirror - you want to know what she sees when she looks at you? _

_ Nononononono- _

Jon forces the image down,  _ down  _ as far as he can, fighting the accidental Knowing back with everything he has. The force of it and his guilt leaves him nauseous, with an aching loneliness lingering like a sunspot in his vision and  _ you have no right it’s your fault you did that to him- _

_ The Lonely’s really gotten to you, hasn’t it? _

"They're beautiful." Jon blurts out.

Martin turns to him. A tired smile in nothing but shape pulls at his mouth. "Jon-"

"I mean it.” He declares. “I-I mean, I'm not just saying that." Jon almost puts his hands on Martin's shoulders, but after a moment he brings them to his face, cheeks to palms, fingertips brushing his hairline. Just like he did in the Lonely. But this time Martin's face is warm with sleep instead of chilled with wind, and Jon hopes his hands aren't too cold in comparison.

He wasn’t lying. They  _ are _ beautiful. There's a circle of blue around the pupils - the familiar blue that comes unbidden to Jon's mind with warm tea and an equally warm smile. Slate grey creeps in from the edges, bleeding into the blue from the outside in, like tye-dye. The shifting gradient reminds Jon of a foggy sea, like the misting coast he spent wandering as a child in Bournemouth. Or a clear sky, streaked with clouds after a rainstorm. A winter morning, icy and clear and breathtaking in its fundamental beauty. And Jon tells him as such.

Martin sighs, but he’s smiling, as fragile and uncertain as it is. “God, Jon, I thought  _ I  _ was supposed to be the poet.”

“Oh, you are, don’t worry.” He thinks for a moment about dropping his hands, but brushes his thumbs across Martin’s cheeks instead. “Any poetry I write is purely accidental. I was going for objective truth, in this case.”

Martin laughs, and it doesn’t echo quite as much around the edges like the last one, which eases some of the tension coiled in Jon’s chest.

It’s early, still, and they have nowhere to be. So they go back to bed. It’s not the last time Jon catches Martin staring at his reflection, and it’s not the last time Jon tells him exactly what he sees when he looks at him.


End file.
